


Born the River Queen

by deathwailart



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Death, Drowning, F/F, Fantasy, Forests, Horror, Knights - Freeform, Magic, Mermaids, Sexual Content, Threesome - F/F/F, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a shade of mossy green<br/>Seashell in her hand<br/>She was born the river queen<br/>Ne’er to grace the land</p>
<p>Loreley - Blackmore's Night</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born the River Queen

There have always been many warnings about this particular stretch of forest, few of them good - riches and adventure surely lurk within the depths but these are purely speculation for none have ever successfully made it through the forest and the stretches of water that weave their way between ancient trees. All sorts of beasts will lurk, the beasts mostly known or so they think from the ones they hunt on the outskirts or the daring few that breach the forest and make their way towards the village. There are deer, graceful does and proud stags with huge antlers, rabbits, hare, fox and wolf and at times there have been bears, roaring walls of muscle, fur and teeth but there are other things. Skeletal canines or close enough that have fire where flesh should sit, drooling molten lava from their snapping, snarling maws. Snakes and spiders and other things to make flesh crawl made only from shadows themselves, evaporating in the light of dawn. Birds that watch with an intelligence past anything human, great flocks that haunt the branches with beady eyes and razor claws and beaks, waiting to pluck out eyes and tear strips of flesh from bone when any venture into the forest surely to their doom. There are other things, poisonous monstrosities, creatures that must surely be vast or eldritch from the sounds they make, bass rumblings that shake walls and echo and high reedy shrieks that turn blood to ice in the veins of any who hear. Even worse are the times where giants surely tread, all the ground shaking. The forest is alive and none in their right mind should venture there. Of course there are the Fair Folk who are appeased, fairy rings left along by farmers in their fields with little plates and saucers left out to appease them. No one complains when they wake to find their horses with knots or mysterious braids running through their manes. Mischief is more welcome than malice.  
  
A boundary is marked along the forest ostensibly along all the length of it with the strips of cloth bound around tree trunks to mark how deep someone has ventured and returned. Many are faded from the seasons, from rain and snow as well as bleaching if they are where there is space for light to filter down. Deeper in the markers are few and far between but they appear grey from the darkness, not a single gap in the canopy beneath massive boughs, lending an air of claustrophobia or so any sane person might think. So dark is it that they say it is forever night with fairies, wisps and spirits ready to deceive with unnatural lights to follow to lead the lost to their doom, fodder for monsters, subjects for horrific arcane rituals to twist them into abominations or spirits that will haunt their homes. Worst though are the things that live in the stretches of water, ponds surrounded by marshes that are so easily stumbled into and stretches of river, the mermaids or nymphs or sirens; none are sure as to what they are but surely they must be there. Plunge into the waters and dwell forever in a watery grave, fish and beasts nibbling at your putrefying flesh. The forest is a horror story for old and young alike, children playing games of dares that end in a scolding from worried parents or tears and grief if a child ventures too far, never to be found. Foolhardy young men hope to impress young ladies with their daring feats, strutting into the forest as though they are not afraid hoping that bravado and bluster will mask their terror. Young ladies go to show they are as brave as any young man. Knights go too often on some task to slay a beast to prove their worth and bravery, returning with some carcass to present or an item for an alchemist, rare plants, parts of creatures, poisons and venoms.  
  
Others though go for the adventure. Cecelia, knight of Olenfinnan, daughter of The Viscount Mason of Olenfinnan and his lady wife Miranda, old names from an old land who had an heir and a spare, a daughter to marry off and then another daughter who, due to the dubious virtue of being surplus to requirements, was granted a freedom not given to her elder brothers and sister. She trained under the master at arms alongside her the younger of her elder brothers, the eldest learning politics and speeches, how to take up his father's post one day for surely there would always be a Viscount Mason as there had always been, a family of such breeding who raised their children and groomed them to that same lofty position. Not many daughters of noble birth were trained as knights but if there were jokes or remarks to be made they were never made within the hearing of the family or those who would report it back. For long hours she trained alongside others who had the same ambitions, her shoulders growing broader, her arms and thighs muscled beneath the weight of armour, sword and shield. No longer elegant in the evening gowns her sister and other ladies favoured she lived in armour gifted by a master blacksmith, shining steel from the sabatons on her feet to the polyns at her knees and cuiters at her elbows. The cuirass left plain but her shield was a work of art with the Mason family seal upon it, a great war hammer smashing a mountain peak for a family that had started so many centuries ago as humble stoneworkers, rising as they made their fortune. Her broadsword was left simple, no pomp and circumstance about it. A blade did not need to be pretty to be lethal.  
  
"Sometimes I wish you had not followed such a path," her sister would say in a mournful tone as she practiced her needlework, "look at you - how do you suppose you will ever find yourself a husband? A man does not want a wife with stronger arms and broader shoulders than his."  
  
"Knights have no need of marriage," Cecelia would reply, polishing her armour as she sat in a boiled leather jerkin, out of place amidst these ladies, a crow amongst elegant songbirds her mother had once said when she had allowed herself more wine than usual. "I am the black sheep of this family, mother and father's little accident. Do you envy me dear sister, that I am not kept cloistered as you are? That I may wrestle with men?" She always wiggled her eyebrows and her father always laughed, calling her his truest child when she did so.  
  
"You are vile. If you were a man I would pity whatever woman found herself saddled with you as a husband."  
  
"Oh sister if only you knew."  
  
Once her sister had thrown her basket of needlework supplies at her head and she had deflected it with her shield before racing out to join a hunt her father and his friends had organised, returning with a boar they had roasted for dinner for the last feast before their guests had returned to their homes. As much as she loved her life - for she did, given a certain agency so many other women of her standing lacked and an opportunity denied to those of lower standing with her tutors, fancy things, horses and beautiful home - she still chafed. She rode in tournaments, fought in melees, hunted and patrolled but with prolonged peace there was precious little for a knight to do save for ceremonial duties. Boredom gnaws at her relentlessly as she stands guard through tedious meetings where old men drone on and on about borders, grain prices, peasants revolting or complaining, through formal functions where she is the oddity so often in the room - not the knight ladies or blushing maidens wished to twirl about with as the musicians played nor the lady or blushing maiden knights or young men wished to twirl. She drank with her fellow female knights, traded stories and jests and snuck into dark corners with them to share kisses that tasted of spiced wine and danger, a muscled leg between her thighs, the creak of leather, the smell of metal and sweat as they gasped in secret. There were young ladies too, she recalled some fondly, visiting girls who blushed and stammered, fluttering touches and perfumes that made her nose itch; too often they wore veritable acres of fabric, layer after layer, some as delicate as gossamer and easily ripped. A rare one or two had been as bold as any knight though, demanding of her and she had not complained once, enjoying the change of roles, a breath of fresh air in a life that felt increasingly stagnant. It was not a wanderlust that possessed her for she travelled as was her duty but there seemed to be little point to anything that she did. She lived for the moments of sparring or the hunts in the forest where she longed to press deeper and deeper but always her companions or sense of duty pulled her back.  
  
Even in dreams there was no escape from the siren song of the forest, phantom fingers and voices beckoning and more than once she woke in a cold sweat swearing she had heard her name whispered on the wind. Tonight, an unspectacular night to end a day much like any other, after months of tossing and turning enough is enough. She can no longer ignore the need to explore the forest she has been told stories of her whole life since stories told by her nursemaid meant to instil fear into her. And she is afraid but she has been afraid before and silenced it and so she does so now. Strapping on her armour she creeps like a thief from the family home, holding her breath as she does her very best not to make a sound, her armour in a rough sack over her shoulder, wrapped in linen to muffle the clanks that echo off stone walls and carry with the high ceilings of the family home. Her heart pounds in her throat when she finally sneaks out through the kitchen door, the main cook fire burned down to smouldering embers, more smoke than flame now but blessedly empty. It suddenly occurs to her to take food for the journey, apples, cheese, bread, a skin of water and of wine - after all they say water cannot be drunk if it is from the forest for it will cause the drinker to sicken and die in agony within hours - and salted beef and pork. She stows it in her sack with the armour and leaves through the creaking kitchen door, careful not to disturb the milk and bread both drizzled with honey that the cooks have left out for the fairies then skirts around the wall, listening for patrolling guards. The village is quiet, two guards playing dice rather than attending to their duties. All the better for her as her careful footsteps do not disturb them, allowing her to peek inside, open the door and grab a quiver of arrows and bow; she is not an expert archer but she is good enough, able to hunt and wound a foe. The arrows may serve her well in the forest. Lastly she takes a torch to guide her way and to scare off some of the beasts that fear fire from the skeletal animals that prey on them drooling molten rock, hopefully it will help her to avoid some dangers and the lure of the false lights that wish to guide her on the path of death, despair and doom. The careful pace is kept up until she reaches the fields where she breaks into a run, her armour a heavy weight but she scarcely feels it, instead relishing the wind that whips her unruly black hair back from her face and its binding, a few farm animals voicing protest at the stranger in their midst. At the last fence she stops to catch her breath, setting her sack down as she begins to prepare for her journey, strapping her armour into place. Her shield was too large and unwieldy to bring with her on this journey so it remains on her neatly made bed, perhaps a memory should she fail to return.  
  
It is not a thought that has escaped her, that she surely faces a horrible end in this forest. That she will leave a loving family behind who will curse her, who will worry and send out a search party for her. She will be missed and mourned should she never see her home again and she did toy with the thought of telling her family that she planned to venture into the forest but as she tried to guess how the conversation would go, it quickly became clear that it would descend into a farce. They would sooner lock her up until she rid herself of such madness (anything her father deemed to be an odd idea was a madness, she can picture him even now, puffed up like an angry red toad thanks to the weight he had steadily been putting on over the years) and agreed to play the dutiful knight. They might have married her off to someone far from the forest if they truly thought her lost, unlikely but given the fear they all held of the forest it was a possibility. She has not left a note for any of them for if she can hardly think of the words to describe how she feels to herself what hope does she have of ever explaining them to her family? Certainly she does not wish to upset or hurt them in any way. They are her family and she loves them and it is not their fault that they will not understand as she hardly understands any of this herself. Besides there is the risk that a search party will be sent after her; to cause the death or injury of friends she has trained and fought beside is unconscionable when this is her mad quest, not theirs. No, it is kindest to let them wonder or think she has gone off to seek her fortune or even that she has run away with someone. They will search the borders of the forest where it is safe but no one is suicidal enough to go as deep as she plans to, a thing that gives her some measure of solace and comfort as she leans on the fence, buckling and strapping her armour into place under the gaze of a stray cow, braver than the rest. It watches her, the interloper, curiously, breath steaming in the cold night air as a pair of owls hoot to one another. She dons her helm last, the sack much lighter as she hoists it over one shoulder clear of her quiver. Finally she is ready and she smiles at the cow, patting it once on its cold, wet nose for luck, resisting the urge to laugh as it backs off with an alarmed moo, vaulting the fence and scooping up the torch.  
  
"Wish me luck," she calls back to it, too far from any hut or home to be heard. The cow lopes off instead.  
  
She can hardly blame it.  
  
There is still a distance to go before she reaches the forest past the measures that they have built over the years to keep them safe, superstitions that have been passed from generation to generation. A small stream diverted to run for miles between farm and forest to stop all things that cannot cross running water, a track of iron to burn things that are sensitive to it save the fairies that can fly over it, coated in salt for good measure. Priests bless the ground, a long solemn procession on holy days, their hands clasped with incense swinging as the villagers all watch, hands clutched to their chests all of them raising their voices in song and prayer to consecrate this stretch of ground. They say it keeps the worst of the beasts at bay but Cecelia has her doubts as do others. Stories of the origins are murky, shrouded in mystery from the days when this forest covered the whole world with pockets of people looking for a way to escape it, fleeing the things that hunted them and saw them not as people but as prey for food or other uses. As always there is trepidation as she approaches and her torch casts shadows more unnatural than usual but she is a knight, she is unafraid and she will not give in. Enough defeat has been suffered thanks to this damn forest and tonight she begins a journey that will end with glory or so she makes herself think so that she will not listen to the small voice at the back of her mind that tells her to turn back now, that there is no shame in it, that far better and braver than her have given up and found something else to satisfy them. Another part screams that she is a damned fool, that pride cometh before the fall and that she will have no one but herself to blame when she ends up dead or worse. Taking a shaky breath she presses onward. She will not listen to them. She is Cecelia, knight of Olenfinnan, stalwart as the stoneworkers her family began as.  
  
"I will fear no darkness, no sound, no shadow, no creeping shape or lurking monster," so begins her mantra as she crosses the iron track covered in salt, "I have my broadsword, my bow and arrow. Years of training behind me. Clad in the very best armour of Olenfinnan. This forest will bow before me as I emerge victorious, a champion to be sung of for decades by bards from country to country. Darkness vanishes before the light, steel cleaves flesh and bone and wood." Repeating it, she leaps across the manmade stream and there she is, at the first trees covered in layer up layer of cloth, old and new, loose threads and ends fluttering in the breeze. The smell of the forest hits her as it always does, always musky for the very air is thick and damp no matter the weather, the smell of rotting wood, bog and fen and if she inhales deeply enough, a note of something decomposing, foul yet sickly sweet. This is it. Her broadsword is rattled in its sheathe so it is at hand as she forges onward as she has many times before but never in the darkness. She dare not look back. Alone anything could take advantage of her should she lower her guard even for the briefest of moments and she would never see it coming. The torch she moves in careful arcs to find her way, moving tree by tree but never in a straight line. The first noise she hears makes her jump, heart in her mouth, stomach clenching. "You are a knight," she hisses to herself, "pull yourself together." Another queer cry echoes, guttural moan that ends in what sounds like a death rattle. Croaking and mournful howls surround her as she tries to stick to the solid ground and not the patches of bog but one foot slips and she clutches the nearest tree for balance as the water and mud suck at her leg and _pull_ , her hands digging into the branch, feeling the tension as it comes close to snapping free of the tree until at last she hauls herself out, staggering. A moment to collect herself is only prudent, or so she tells herself, inspecting her foot and lower leg with the torch to make sure nothing has attached itself to her. Moving onward yet again the marked trees are few and far between but she knows what she looks for, the spot all the knights are made aware of for the first of their number that reached such a depth to vanquish some creature that had stolen children for its own replacing the babes with its own that soon showed their true nature, slaughtering their unsuspecting parents before rampaging through the village. Her family home had been their salvation with the thick high walls until the lone knight, the champion had gone forth, slicing at the beasts. He slew the fiend but died of wounds sustained in the conflict but not before tying his cloak to the nearest tree, a blue and silver standard.  
  
Now she stands alone in the forest, by a tree with an ancient tattered piece of cloth knotted around it, all that remains of that brave knight, hero and champion who they all hope to emulate. From here she will be the first in living memory to choose to venture forward, to risk life and limb and no doubt sanity to see what truly lies within the forest. With the thick covering of leaves above the light of moon and stars are blotted out, the darkness so complete that it is impossible to tell if dawn approaches - time moves differently here, or so it feels, every moment an eternity. She sinks down into the hollow of the tree after checking she is disturbing nothing, debating whether or not she risks extinguishing her flame leaving her effectively blind but perhaps safe and hidden or keeping it lit so that any beast might see her. In the end, she leaves it. The forest knows someone has entered its midst. With a lead weight in her gut, her sword flat across her lap and the flame propped up nearby she settles down to sleep fitfully until the dawn chorus, an unholy racket of menacing cackles wakes her. Her torch has gone out but she grabs it anyway in the awkward staggering scramble to her feet as she regains her bearings, forcing her eyes to open even though she dearly wishes to go back to sleep. She woke so often in the night and now her neck is stiff and her back sore, all of her cold from the ground, an unnatural chill more keenly felt than other cold nights camped on hard ground on the road. A mist winds its way about her, so thick in places that she cannot see through it but not white or grey, rather it is a faint blue, paler than a robin's egg but with a powerful stench that soon has her gagging, eyes watering as she coughs and hurries to cover her nose with one hand. The sulphurous stink of rotting egg has her choking, gorge rising and she is glad she has not eaten yet or she would surely be bent double, vomiting violently – as it is she has no choice but to move to where the mist seems to be thinner, greedily gulping down cleaner air even as she swears that it is following her. Something swoops low over her head, nails scraping her helm and she looks, scanning above her but nothing is there. She can feel the eyes though, the press of trees more claustrophobic now that she can see them, hemming her in and one path she chooses is a dead end, the press of trees so close that she can scarcely fit her arm through and she is forced to venture back into the mists to choose another path.  
  
Something twines about her ankle, trying to constrict but thankfully her armour stops it from doing any real damage – whatever it is, it isn't one of the fabled things said to be able to bend metal and snap the bones beneath but still she takes no chances, drawing a small dagger strapped to her hip to cut it off, indigo blood bubbling from the wound. Not quite a snake but not quite a worm, she has no idea what it is – or was – but takes no chances, wiping her dagger clean on the ground before sheathing it. This isn't the right moment to be taking risks, or so she thinks until a burst of laughter erupts from her because this whole situation is a risk, a foolish risk that is not seemly in a woman of noble birth or a knight. To be here in the forest, deeper than any have ventured and lived to tell of it, unlikely to return ever again, all on a whim, finally deciding that she would not put it off until she grew old and bitter, battle-hardened perhaps or souring the moods of others to match hers as she droned on about what might have been, swallowing back regret and recrimination with cheap ale. Too many knights have ended up such sad old sots to be avoided at all costs and she had never wanted to join their ranks. She would rather die here, hopefully doing battle with some great monstrous foe that she might name worthy opponent, in her prime and full of fire as opposed to dying an old lady in her bed. The ground rumbles beneath her feet, the mist thinning out until she deems she can rest, breathing in fresh air again as she ponders what her next move might be. Have others ever walked the same paths as her in recent memory? The forest takes up a huge chunk of Olenfinnan's boundaries and neighbouring lands have not been forced to build homes or use the land so close to it. Still, if she ever emerges upon the other side then she might find the same thing she did on entering, trees with strips of cloth bound around them to show just how far some venture.  
  
It does not take long before she stumbles upon her first skeleton. Or what remains of it. Old and protruding from the ground and one day it will be buried utterly but now she spies a ribcage with weeds and unfamiliar flowers twining around each protruding rib, flowers that grow along the outskirts too. They must be plucked at just the right time for they have a powerful pollen that can be used to fight a severe chill or to heat the body when hypothermia sets in but wait too long or pluck them too early and a fever will set in, the victim drowning in sweat, moaning and clutching at their stomach as vicious cramps rip through them, greedy for water that makes no difference. An arm protrudes too but there are no fingers. It could be a human or something else, she cannot tell and so she sidesteps it, continuing onward, unable to stop herself from craning her neck left and right, looking up at the forest canopy as sounds echo off it and to her feet to watch all sorts of things scurrying, creeping and crawling. When hunger gets the better of her she stops to eat on a rotting log, gnawing at salt beef and taking a mouthful of wine. All in all, save her initial moments of panic it has not been the nightmare she thought it would be. Nothing has attacked her yet, she is reasonably sure she can find her way back, she has not been bitten, stung, scraped or pecked nor has she ingested anything remotely questionable other than the mist that so far has done nothing save for a slight sting in her nose and eyes that lingers, a petty and minor irritation. It does occur that if the forest is as alive as some suggest that it might be trying to lull her into a false sense of security so that it can spring some trap on her, catching her off guard but she trusts that she will be able to keep her wits about her no matter what is thrown at her unless it is truly her fate to die here. There is nothing comforting about the forest and it does unsettle her that she cannot tell what time it is without real light, all of it murky and the press of trees stops any breeze from filtering through either, the air close and damp. The leather of her armour sticks to her skin but she has no plans to remove any of the layers she wears. All of it is to protect her. However, the helm is tucked beneath her arm, just to stop her from becoming unbearably hot with the torch, still unlit until it starts to get darker than the ever present gloom, stowed in the sack over her shoulder.  
  
A bear ambles out from some hidden lair, grunting, its breath rank even from a distance as it rises on hind legs but it is no match for her, a quick flurry of arrows making short work of it and she retrieves them, studying the bear. There are differences to the others for this one is bigger and instead of the uniform brown that all bears are it has dappled patches upon it, perhaps to make it blend in better; later in the day wolves, cats, birds and other such things exhibit the same to the point that she wonders if they were even made of the same things as other beasts or if the forest spawned them from the air, dirt, trees and water. Maybe the fairies made them, she thinks as they fly about her, tugging at her hair, landing on her shoulders, whispering away in a language she can't understand that sounds more like the clicking of beetles than words. Strange fruits hang from the trees, glittering things that look like fruits she knows but in strange colours with patterns along them, water beading on them like diamonds. Amongst them hang bats or what she thinks are bats, something more sinister about them with the sharper cuts of their wings, some near translucent save black blood pumping through their veins. Some fruits move and curiosity dictates she touch one only to scream in disgust when it explodes with maggots, fat and white and wriggling, crawling inside her armour until she has no choice but to strip, horrified from stories she has heard. They say they eat only dead flesh, healers applying them as well as leeches for a good bleeding to keep the body healthy but all she sees are them finding some tiny scrape and chewing away, worming their way beneath her skin to devour her slowly from the inside out until she is flesh and bone, black flies bursting free from her body as she gasps her last. She feels more exposed than she should as she shakes the things free, watching them plop to the ground and she grinds as many as she can beneath her boot, not that it does much good in land that feels close to a marsh, soft beneath her weight. There is a layer of musty smelling leaf litter, slick and she hugs the trees, wincing when things give beneath her feet. The crack of a twig and a bone sound much the same here and the ground writhes in places, birds and bats and small beasts writhing with the insects that devour their remains.  
  
With the unnatural light and routines of the creatures of the forest it is impossible to tell how long she walks. It could be simply hours, it could be days as she nibbles little and often at her supplies but somehow she is not as hungry as she feels she should be. True, she has marched long hours, ridden even longer stealing snatches of sleep on her feet or in the saddle, wetting her mouth or taking the edge off her hunger and she feels that she should be concerned but it's hard to make herself take notice when there are so many other things to keep her on guard. She will warn people of them when she returns home, she decides, that will be her plan, they can go as a group with more supplies and keep watch over one another, why have they not done this in recent living memory? Why only the distant past where the stories come from.  
  
Stories are told of the ponds and marshes of the forest and she is on the edge of one now, almost a lake from the looks of it that stretches out for what must be miles, trees on the other side much the same as what she sees now. Which way to go, she wonders, unable to swim in her armour and with her supply of food, wondering what way would be best as she investigates, looking for a sturdy stick to help test the depths of the waters and to help support her own weight should she trip. All sorts could dwell within these waters. Frogs and toads, newts, snapping turtles or terrapins, water spirits and bog devils, water nymphs, nereids, sirens, mermaids, kelpies; there is a long tradition of bodies of water being haunted, malevolence hanging over them, an invisible miasma that leads to death and drowning. Water is not trusted when so few know how to swim or because they wear garments unsuited to it and she is wary even though she can swim if she has to but her armour is heavy and she could easily be dragged down to her death. Lights glow, ebbing and flowing with some unnatural tidal movement, a sickly orange and she watches as she dips a sturdy branch into the water, pressing down hard to gauge just how strong the bank is. Out of habit she looks up to find some marker but of course there is none, her sense of direction lost by the morning with the only sure way to return being the way she has already ventured. Turning back here, it would not be shameful, she has come farther than others, she could bring some trophy with her to prove it and rip some fabric from her loose undershirt to tie to the branch, anchoring it deep into the bank to say I have been here, I have conquered farther than those before me. She turns back to glance behind her because that way is safe, it is manageable despite the hours she has walked or is it days? God she can't remember as the fog winds its way through the trees the way it always does, no sulphurous stink to it, just the same stale air of the forest but colder and damper. At times it's almost refreshing to walk through it when the sun must surely be beating down on the leaves high above her head turning the whole place into a humid furnace where even breathing is too much effort.  
  
The water is clear when she looks down at herself, her cheeks flushed pink. Carefully she bends to her knees and removes her gauntlets, setting her sack down with them on top, well away from the water. To lose her sword would be folly too and after deliberation that belt is unbuckled and set atop the sack and gauntlets, bow and arrow gone too – she still has her dagger after all – as she reaches down, watching for any sudden movement, eels or snakes to bind themselves about her wrist or leeches to attach themselves or little biting fish and beasts that might go after her fingers as an easy meal. She sighs in bliss when her hands submerge, the icy chill of the water soothing. It's so easy to lose herself in a moment of calm and luxury, everything melting away until each wrist is seized by a hand so suddenly that she cannot haul herself back in time to avoid falling into the lake with an almighty splash, spluttering and struggling. Two mermaids stare back at her when she finally manages to reach the surface, panting and disoriented.  
  
"What in the name of God!" She shouts, her voice a lonely sound above the lapping water and the tittering of her assailants, long tails moving back and forth, making ripples she can see but can't feel through her armour. Only the cold begins but she at least finds her feet, not too deep after all. Surely she can break their hold and stagger back to the surface. They can't be stronger than a knight in armour, she will have an advantage over them although they don't seem to mind at all, all coy looks and smirks, flipping their hair over their shoulders.  
  
"Oh it's been so long hasn't it?" One croons, her long straight hair the same soft pink as the carnations her mother tends to.  
  
"It has and look it's a _knight_ , we haven't seen one of those in _years_ ," the second mermaid's hair is equally long but wavy, mint green in colour but both share the same skin colour that unsettles Cecelia, a blue colouration she associates with dead bodies and even though all three are now soaked there is a clamminess to their hands and faces pressed so close to her that disturbs her greatly. And yet, she cannot make her legs move save from making sure she does not sink into the mud and find herself trapped at the mercy of mermaids.  
  
"You all stopped visiting," the first continues, "we were very upset; it gets lonely when it's just us with no one to play with."  
  
"You'll play with us, won't you sweetness?"  
  
It is on the tip of her tongue to say no but she can't make her mouth shape the words as she stands, struck dumb and remembering nights in palaces and manors with pretty princesses and ladies, silk and lace and corsets, soft curves laid bare. There will be no undressing here as the mermaids raise themselves up, reaching for straps on her armour, breasts bare save where their hair covers them. "I..." she manages dumbly as the lower half of her steel armour is stripped away, tossed onto the bank with little regard for its condition.  
  
"I do love it Briar when they can't find their words," the pink-haired mermaid teases, the fingers of her free hand making their way up Cecelia's thigh, reaching for the laces of the leather trousers she wears beneath.  
  
"I know Meryl," the green-haired mermaid replies, deftly removing the breastplate – Cecelia doesn't remember when they let go of her wrists, doesn't even care in the slightest, "but she'll sing soon, oh yes, she will."  
  
They guide her deeper, enough that she loses her footing and panics, mist and fog rolling in until the world above her is white. The hush her, helping her to shimmy out of sodden leathers with some difficulty and this time it is allowed to sink as far as it may beneath them, scales brushing her bare legs and making her shiver. Briar tilts her chin and kisses her with frozen lips, Meryl's hand sliding up her stomach to stroke her breast, teasing her nipple until she pulls away from the kiss with a gasp. They're moving all the while, deeper and deeper, the two mermaids trading places with one another and this must be how it felt to be the maiden with the knight, knowing fingers between her legs, no fumbling or teasing but for the chill that stabs right into the core of her being. She's freezing, her teeth chattering and she's sinking, the mermaids leading her down, down, down but it feels like she's soaring, panting and gasping as they work in unison, a mouth on her breast, another at her throat, a deft thumb over her clit, fingers in her cunt that she clenches around, her hips moving wildly until she cries out loud enough that she disturbs some far away creature into bursting from the trees. Everything seems far away now, a haze settling as the mermaids hold her steady. She can't feel her fingers or her toes, only a buzz thrumming through her and she's trembling, or at least it feels that way, flushed and freezing all at once but somehow, it's harder to breathe and she thrashes, instinct taking over because it's dark, it's dark and her body is so heavy, unresponsive.  
  
"Shh, shh," a hand pets her hair as she opens her mouth to scream but instead water floods in.  
  
"Don't fight it, it will all be over soon," a flanging voice croons, stroking her face with a tenderness that should not be present when one is being drowned.  
  
The one petting her hair comes closer, kissing her and smiling, "you'll see soon."  
  
"You'll thank us," the first one promises as Cecelia screams, her lungs ready to burst until it all stops. She no longer feels needles of agony pricking at her eyes and limbs, her lungs and throat no longer burn and her eyes see only dancing lights instead. She sinks like a stone.  
  
Years pass, the ebb and flow of a non-existent tide and mist. Children and born and live and grow old and die. The forest remains as unchanged as ever, still a source of dread and terror for those who live by the borders and who see its looming shadow when first they open their eyes and venture outside each day to go about their lives. It is always watching. By the shores of the lake deep within the forest lies a suit of armour abandoned, weeds sprouting around it. Leather and wood rot but steel remains, a warning for those who might see it should they stumble upon it. Mist and fog rise from the lake cultivated by the things that lurk deep within it, a mist they send out as they sing at night up on the banks, bodies bluish white and cold to the touch, long shimmering scales where legs should be as they comb their hair with silver combs given to them by fairies riding their kelpies and horses through towns and villages. Where once were two there are now three, one with green hair, one with pink and one with black hair so dark they say it is made of the night itself. But three is still too lonely with this lake so large and they sing, they wait, they send their voices out to stir another from their bed. Their songs stir the impulse to travel, to explore, to discover something new and unclaimed, content to bide their time until just the right brave soul appears, ready to lean over the edge of the lake, to be pulled in to join three who will love the new arrival so sweetly that she will be overjoyed to drown with them, to be presented and remade to dwell forever in the place she has dreamed of at their urging.  
  
The mist spreads out, the fairies move through it whispering to the trees and beasts as one approaches. The trio smile. It will not be long now, they have waited so patiently until now, and their loneliness will be at an end once more.


End file.
